Well, what had I thought? Of course I didn’t want her to tell anyone. It would cost me my job

Yelena

I’d sewn hundreds of bridal gowns over the years, but never before had I felt this flutter of excitement on pickup day.

Olga and I stood back and admired the Dratler gown, which was hanging from the open door of Olga’s sewing room.

“A masterpiece,” Olga said sincerely. “You outdid yourself.”

“Thank you,” I whispered. “Spasibo. I could never have done it without you.”

It was a masterpiece. A beautiful silk satin bodice with fine beading — not handmade by an Indian woman, but magnificent nonetheless — and an elaborate tulle skirt, pearls scattered between the layers of mesh. The gown had a perfect balance: soft yet stark, refined but at the same time startlingly gorgeous.

At the end of the day, Yocheved knows how to design a gown.

But, no, this wasn’t Yocheved’s gown. She’d drawn it up, true, but I had brought it to life. What was a gown worth on a piece of paper?

When the Dratlers showed up a few minutes later, I could tell they were ecstatic.

Tzirel slipped the gown on and I carefully set the skirts into place. She blinked at her reflection in the full-length mirror Olga held up.

“Wow…” she murmured.

Mrs. Dratler dabbed at her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

I fumbled in my bag. “Do you mind… a picture?” My cheeks flushed as I held my phone up in the air.

“I guess, go head,” Mrs. Dratler said. “But maybe… don’t show it to anyone?”

“Oh, no, nyet,” I said quickly. “Of course not. Just for me. I don’t want…” A sudden fear gripped my chest. “You won’t tell anyone I sewed this gown, right?” I asked anxiously. “You won’t… you know, Yocheved. She’s can’t know about this.”

“We understand,” Mrs. Dratler said. “Don’t worry, she won’t find out.”

But then, if she didn’t tell anyone, how would word spread? Wasn’t that what she’d promised, when she’d begged me to sew this gown? That she’d advertise me, bring me customers….

Well, what had I thought? Of course I didn’t want her to tell anyone. It would cost me my job.

Tzirel smiled shyly as I snapped a picture.

“Remember to kick when you walk,” I told her as I helped her out of the gown. “Like this. So you don’t trip and you don’t tear the tulle.”

With the gown back on the hanger, I paused. How was I supposed to pack up this dress? I didn’t have any of those paper mannequins Yocheved used. I didn’t even have a garment bag. So unprofessional.

“Here,” Olga said, bringing over a pile of heavy stuffing paper. She crumpled up the sheets and stuffed them into the gown’s sleeves. Then she brought out a large plastic tablecloth, and together, we laid down the gown and wrapped it up.

This was it. I’d made it, the Dratler gown was done, on time. It was a miracle — an Olga miracle.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 671)